When wealthy Russian investors contract L.A. psychologist Joel Fischer to develop a device to manipulate minds, the Dreemweever exceeds all expectations. Everything is on track for delivery and a big payday, until two adventurous stoners steal his Dodge Challenger that, unknown to them, contains the Dreemweever in its trunk. Fischer and his crew have two days to get it back or he dies.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Something New I'm Working On: CH1 of "SISSY MURPHY"

No blood and the little Puerto Rican cocksucker needs to be alive when the concrete vault is dropped on him.

I love simple instructions.

The no blood tenet meant my initial idea of a cricket ball was out. The raised seam traversing the leather shell would easily lacerate flesh. This bummed me out, because I have really improved the pace on my inswinger. Plan B, a lacrosse ball, works perfectly. Delivered at ninety miles per hour, it will hurt like hell, bruise internal organs, break ribs, and crush testicles.

I’m sure Armando, street name Striker, follows a code of stereotypical ethics on the streets of Lawrence, Massachusetts. No ratting, you never go against, or leave the gang, blah, blah, blah. Striker will now learn ours.

Never fuck with the elderly, children, or the Irish.

My well practiced brogue is sweeter than Tim Finnegan’s when I ask him, “Where is she, you piece of shite?”

Striker screams, but sees nothing. He’s got a severe case of Super Glue conjunctivitis at the moment. Other than his bikini skivvies, he’s naked. My plan was that he be totally naked and facing me, but he’s not circumcised and so hairy, his welfare check missile is a huge distraction.

I’m weird about shit like that.

Striker has probably never seen a lacrosse net before and doesn’t know his arms and legs are duct taped to each of the four corners.

His tan line tells me he suns himself in bikinis and I wonder if he’s either part French Canadian, or summers in Provincetown. Maybe both, I think, then smile.

This is the tenderizing of Striker stage of the game. I’m hoping the fear of the money shot is weighing heavily on his mind.

It is not a fear of heights. It is the fear of falling.

David Lee Roth pops into my head, One break…coming up.

Whammo! Lower right torso. Couple ribs, maybe a kidney.

Striker gives up a cough scream, trying to say something. I realize I must have nicked a lung. Coach would be proud, 'Great shot Murph.'